The four men walked on for half an hour or so in silence, peering eagerly on every side; but it was not until they had left the woods and marched out into the level stretch of grassy country that they came upon the enemy.  The Hillmen were about forty in number, and were as savage and ugly-looking giants as any in a picture-book.  They had captured a dozen cows and goats, and were driving them on before them, as they advanced farther upon the village.  When they saw the four men, they gave a mixed chorus of cries and yells, and some of them stopped, and others ran forward, shaking their spears, and shooting their broad arrows into the ground before them.  A tall, gray-bearded, muscular old man, with a skirt of feathers about him, and necklaces of bones and animals’ claws around his bare chest, ran in front of them, and seemed to be trying to make them approach more slowly.

“Is that Messenwah?” asked Gordon.

“Yes,” said Stedman; “he is trying to keep them back.  I don’t believe he ever saw a white man before.”

“Stedman,” said Albert, speaking quickly, “give your gun to Bradley, and go forward with your arms in the air, and waving your handkerchief, and tell them in their language that the King is coming.  If they go at you, Bradley and I will kill a goat or two, to show them what we can do with the rifles; and if that don’t stop them, we will shoot at their legs; and if that don’t stop them—­I guess you’d better come back, and we’ll all run.”

Stedman looked at Albert, and Albert looked at Stedman, and neither of them winced or flinched.

“Is this another of my secretary’s duties?” asked the younger boy.

“Yes,” said the consul; “but a resignation is always in order.  You needn’t go if you don’t like it.  You see, you know the language and I don’t, but I know how to shoot, and you don’t.”

“That’s perfectly satisfactory,” said Stedman, handing his gun to old Bradley.  “I only wanted to know why I was to be sacrificed instead of one of the Bradleys.  It’s because I know the language.  Bradley, Sr., you see the evil results of a higher education.  Wish me luck, please,” he said, “and for goodness’ sake,” he added impressively, “don’t waste much time shooting goats.”

The Hillmen had stopped about two hundred yards off, and were drawn up in two lines, shouting, and dancing, and hurling taunting remarks at their few adversaries.  The stolen cattle were bunched together back of the King.  As Stedman walked steadily forward with his handkerchief fluttering, and howling out something in their own tongue, they stopped and listened.  As he advanced, his three companions followed him at about fifty yards in the rear.  He was one hundred and fifty yards from the Hillmen before they made out what he said, and then one of the young braves, resenting it as an insult to his chief, shot an arrow at him.  Stedman dodged the arrow and stood his ground without even taking a step backward, only turning